


Take Me To Church

by secondhandact



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Age Difference, Blasphemy, Dream Sex, F/M, Humanstuck, Hypnotism, Mind Control, Oral Sex, Priests, Roman Catholicism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 00:48:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5688151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondhandact/pseuds/secondhandact
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is a virtuous man, the leader of his Church and the one that everyone looks up to.</p><p> </p><p>One heathen could not possibly be his undoing. Could she?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [specialsari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/specialsari/gifts).



The New Year starts with a lost rosary and a new face at Mass.

The rosary is the traumatic event of the two — it was one of the only things left with him when he was abandoned, the beads carved of genuine ivory and the chain replaced three times over, with ♋ worked into the back of the Virgin Mary at the intersection of the beads. Though he is _sure_ that he had left it in his office on Wednesday, it still has not turned up by Sunday morning, and when he steps up to the pulpit, he has to fight to keep from looking visibly distressed. The loss of it is so unsettling that he almost misses the new face in the crowd — and he would have, if it weren’t for the fact that she was sitting in the front row.

For the first couple weeks, she’s just that— another face in the Mass before him on Sunday morning. Young (but not _too_ young), with bright blue eyes behind cats-eye frames and a look of intense adoration on her face, her skirt freshly pleated, her socks darned and her shirt buttoned up smartly. The very picture of a Catholic girl, save for one particular fact: she is not in any way Catholic.

He's as sure of her lack of faith as he is that God is in his Heaven. Still, her dedication is to be admired: she is there, third from the left and directly in front of the pulpit, every single week. First it’s just Mass; then he sees her again on Saturday at Vigil, and then Wednesday for study. Week after week, she endures, gazing up at the pulpit reverently, listening more intently than those of his flock whom he has known for years. Some of his congregation could learn from her, he’s sure.

* * *

On the fourth Sunday that she graces his flock with her presence, she rises to receive Communion and there is only a split second of trepidation before he blesses her with the sign of the cross and passes her on down the line. Body and spirit are not for those who are not part of the Church, and he does not wonder at the disgruntled expression on her face after. Surely she must know that the Eucharist isn’t meant for those who aren’t practicing Catholics, in holy union with Rome herself. 

He spends the following week writing a sermon that covers the meaning of Communion, and delivers it flawlessly on Sunday morning. Though she rises again, she does not look displeased when he crosses her. Her demure smile endures for the rest of Mass, and he tries not to think about how her smile is somehow even more unsettling than the frustrated look he’d seen on her the week before.

* * *

Wednesday finds her in her customary seat at Bible Study, though it appears she has broken her silence and is in rapt conversation with miss Leijon. This is hardly surprising. She could not expect to become such a frequent visitor to the church and not be engaged by one of his congregation, and it is unsurprising that his favored Disciple is the first one to interact with her; though a tragic accident had left her partially deaf a few years prior, she still remained one of his most outgoing followers, and she’d gotten quite skilled at reading lips. He doesn’t think anything of it, until he realizes the name that keeps coming up isn’t Mary, or Jesus, or even Lord — it’s _his._

Of course she is curious about him. He is, after all, the leading priest of this Church. Still, Bible study is no place for idle schoolyard gossip, which is something he reminds the young Disciple with a stern voice but a loving smile. Meulin ducks her head, signing blushing apologies in his direction until he responds with a quick sign of forgiveness and settles into his place at the head of the circle. The topic that night quickly migrates into the worship of Heaven, and he reinforces several times that praise is not due to earthly congregations but rather the Heavens above and the Lord God. 

By the end of it, he’s well satisfied that he’s turned the focus of these students back to Heaven, and he wishes each of the members a good evening in turn. It’s in the midst of the goodbyes that she bumps past him, and when he lifts his startled gaze to her, she only smiles and waves. There’s a hole in her smile where she’s lost a tooth, and though it’s unseemly, he can’t help but watch the way her hips twitch under her blue skirt as she sashays her way to her car, and he finds himself still a little shaken when he slips behind the wheel of his little Accord and turns his car homeward.

That night, he dreams.

He doesn’t remember it in the morning, not truly; just bits and pieces — patches of skin slick with sweat, desperate whimpers, the twist of fingers in sheets and breasts heaving with gasping breaths — and it’s just as well, because the ache in his groin is stronger than it’s been since he was a young boy being tempted by less pure sisters in his parent’s congregation. He stumbles on his way to the shower, and even the cold water isn’t enough to chase it completely away. He scolds himself for his momentary indulgence the night before. Clearly he needs to focus on his studies, his life, his Lord.

The day is full of devotional, and by the end of it, he’s almost forgotten the dream in its entirety.

Almost.

* * *

Saturday evening he dreams again, and this time her lips shape his name and the sound of it is still ringing in his ears when he jerks awake, drenched in sweat, and his fingers are shaking when they scramble for the shower knob to turn the water on full—blast and freezing. 

For the first time in his life, he finds he’s dreading going to Mass, and he almost — _almost_ — calls Father Captor, to ask him to stand in. The idea of the old, gaunt man standing in front of the congregation is not a pleasant mental image (though he has to admit it’s an amusing one — the man lisps on every other syllable, and he has a frightful temper when it’s pointed out) and it’s with a sigh that he gathers his robes and dons his stole..

She’s there ( _of course_ ) and he imagines that the smile on her lips is smug, like she’s seen the inside of his skull and knows his sins. It takes some doing to make it to the end of the sermon without stammering; but he manages. He cannot say the same for the confession he offers once seated on the familiar wooden bench, though by the time he has finished describing his awful, lustful thoughts the fear has left him. Even before the priest issues his absolution, he can feel the Grace of Heaven once again resting on his shoulders. Clearly this was meant to be a humbling reminder that even Fathers need Confession. That night he sleeps easy, and there are no dreams.

* * *

Peace never lasts. Saturday night brings an end to it, and this time he can nearly make out words and finds himself weeping when sleep leaves him. The shower is, as always, a cold comfort, and when he faces the mirror, he finds the person staring back at him has hollow eyes.

This time he enters the confessional before he dares step up to the pulpit. This time, it doesn’t help, and he gives his sermon with the same hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach that he’d woken with, and finds himself unable to meet the eyes watching him in the front row, for fear he’d dream of them again.

* * *

She’s gasping and he can almost _taste_ her, he can feel her thick black hair in his fingers and she’s begging for _more, Father Vantas, **please**_ —

His bed is drenched in sweat, and barely a night goes by where he has respite from his own twisted wants. 

The dreams will not stop coming.

* * *

When Father Captor asks him if he would like to take a respite from Sunday Mass, he gratefully accepts it, acknowledging silently what everyone surely knows. He is slipping in his faith, and he knows it. The whole of the Church knows it.

That night, he’s struggling in his dreams, and her skin is grey and her teeth are sharp, and there are far, far more limbs on her than there should be. Her skirt is being lifted with one hand and she’s using another to pull down the neck of her shirt and her blackened lips are whispering sibilantly about all the things she knows he wants to do to her — 

He wakes up sobbing.

Cold showers no longer help.

* * *

On the third day of his seclusion to his office, he finds a note slid under his door, and when he opens it, a picture of his Bible Study group slips out and flutters to the ground. 

Her name, he learns as he reads the note, is Aranea; and she is slowly becoming his undoing without him having ever spoken a single word to her.


	2. Chapter 2

It takes two weeks of his self-imposed confinement before any of the congregation seeks him out. First it’s Meulin, who signs rapidly (and nervously) about a young man she recently met; then the Matriarch, who informs him in no uncertain terms that he should be careful about withdrawing so abruptly from guiding his flock. It’s her that he cringes from; she had, after all, been the one to take him in when he’d been abandoned on the church doorstep, with nothing in his basket but a note and the rosary that he had lost in the months prior.

He promises her that he is doing his best to strengthen his walk with the Lord and that he will return to his duties soon.

“I certainly hope so,” she intones with such solemn severity that he can hear the capitalization of every word as it falls from her lips. She leaves in a swirl of jade skirts and he breathes a sigh of relief when she’s gone.

After the initial visits from Meulin and the Matriarch, word spreads swiftly through the congregation that Father Vantas is welcoming visitors in his office, and so they come, one by one — to wish him well, to seek his counsel, to ask after his health and tell him how much they miss his sermons. While Father Captor is certainly a capable leader, he is not nearly as personable as Father Vantas, and the entirety of his flock seems eager to let him know. They miss him. They want him to return soon.

* * *

The sound of knuckles against his open door is not noteworthy, and he murmurs an invitation of entry without bothering to look up from the Scripture he’s poring over. He means to offer the customary greeting to those of his flock — _how can I help you, my child?_ — but he barely makes it past the word ‘help’ before his voice dies in his throat, for _she_ is the one sitting in his chair.

Perhaps, in the eyes of the rest of the world, she is every bit the innocent girl she appears to be. The skirt is, of course, a full two inches shorter than the regulation length for most schools; but who would be measuring, on a woman who is well into adulthood? (Who indeed, he thinks, noting the way the fabric shifts when she uncrosses and recrosses her legs.) Who would notice that the top two buttons are undone on her blouse and there is no chemise underneath? Who in the Church would take note of the garters under the pleats of her skirt, holding up thigh-highs that are far more sheer than the white knee-socks that would normally come with the uniform she’s chosen?

He wonders idly if she realized what a mockery her ensemble is to the Catholic church, and discards the concept not five seconds later. Every time he had seen her, from the first day she had appeared in Mass, she had been wearing something like this. Perhaps she thought it was what all good Catholic girls wore. Perhaps she was just trying to fit in.

Perhaps.

She must have said something, because those bright eyes are fixated on him in earnest, and he presses two fingers to his temples, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry?”

“I asked when you were coming back to sermon, Father Vantas.” Her voice is soft and sweet, full of the same eager devotion as her expression. “You’re missed, you know.”

The exhalation that escapes him is some mockery of a laugh, and he turns away from her (can’t look at her for too long, _can’t look_ —) picking up one of his old bibles and ruffling the pages. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but it isn’t in the Book. “I’m sure that Father Captor is doing just fine in my place.”

The sound she makes is one of frustration. “Maybe to everyone else, but—”

The snap of the book shutting is enough to silence her. “He is a Father of this Church.” He does his best to make his tone as severe as possible. “His sermons are more than sufficient.”

There’s the sound of squeaking leather. (Even with his back to her, he can picture the way her thighs are shifting in the chair, parting and then crossing again, and he prays silently for strength.) “I’m not trying to disrespect Father Captor, I promise, but—”

He almost, _almost_ turns to look at her, but he catches himself halfway there and ends up just staring out the window at the yard beyond the cathedral’s walls. “There is nothing you can say, young woman, that would not be disrespecting him. Whether I am missed or not is of no concern.”

“But _I_ miss you.” The swift words, prompt a sharp look from him. She at least has the decency to look a little abashed. “I mean—Father, I didn’t _believe_ before I met you.”

That gives him pause. There is, of course, part of him that is unsure that she would ever believe; but there’s enough hope in him that he sits down, facing her fully. “Miss Serket, I mean no disrespect, but I do not think you believe now.”

She’s very attractive when she blushes, he thinks, and she chews on her lower lip before answering. “Well, I don’t. Not exactly.” She pauses (he prays for forgiveness, for absolution, and tries not to think about how her lip looks caught between her teeth) and then continues in earnest. “But I _could_ believe. You...you make it sound _true._ “

Strength is not coming. Again, his fingers are at his temples, massaging in slow circles. “That would be because it _is_ true, miss Serket.” His tone is harsher than he intends it to be, and he lets his eyes close again. It won’t do for him to see her falling to pieces.

There’s frustration in her voice. “Yes, but—it’s harder when it’s someone else reading the verse. You can tell they don’t mean it! Not the way you do.” She takes in a deep breath. “I just think the congregation would benefit from your speedy return. That’s all.”

“ _No._ ” His tone is sharp. “I am not in the right place in my faith to be leading the Church.” He opens his eyes, letting his gaze rest on her. “And I cannot let you sway me on that.”

She huffs, clearly searching for some argument that she might be able to present to him. Finally, she speaks again. “Well, what if it was just me?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What if it was just me,” she repeats. Already, it’s evident that she’s warming to the idea. “I would really love to learn the scriptures better. There’s so much that doesn’t make sense to me—it would be wonderful to discuss them with someone who really knows what the Bible is meant to mean.”

He hesitates. It sounds too perfect — the heretic that tempts him begging him to save her? — but the concept is too appealing for him to let it slide. “There are other deacons—” he begins, but she’s already shaking her head. 

“No, no. They all sound so dusty, dried-up.” The expression on her face is nearly one of disgust. “That’s why I want it to be you. There’s _passion_ in you.”

Still, he hesitates. “It would be improper for me to meet you alone for private lessons.” She looks confused, so he clarifies: “Not to be rude, but you are an unwed woman outside of the Church. It isn’t right that I be alone with you.”

Her hand flutters through the air. “Not at my house! We can meet for dinner, for coffee — public settings are fine.” The smile on her lips is slow, and while he’s sure she doesn’t _mean_ to make his stomach clench, it does all the same. “I don’t want to do anything that would jeopardize your standing in the Church.”

The persistent idea of the very woman who is causing his downfall becoming his saving grace is too enticing. “Alright,” he allows, and she immediately sits up straighter, her smile brightening. “When would you like to meet?”

It’s probably his imagination, but there’s almost something triumphant about the way she’s beaming up at him. “Anytime this week is good for me.”

_Give me strength, Father. Please._ “Friday?” He hedges. It’s impossible for him to forget that the girl before him has been plaguing his dreams for months, that she’s the very reason he stepped down from his position, and he suspects it’s going to take more than a day or two for him to be strong enough to face her without the walls of the cathedral protecting him. 

She’s standing (thank the Lord), gathering her jacket. “Friday is fine. There’s a little restaurant on the next street over, Subs and Grub I think it’s called. Would that be alright?”

“Yes, that’s fine.” He smiles with a certainty he doesn’t at all feel. “I will see you on Friday, miss Serket.” Once again, he lets his eyes close.

“You know, you can call me Aranea.”

“I rather think not.”

She laughs. “Whatever suits you, Father Vantas.” 

When he opens his eyes a few moments later, he realizes she’s still standing in his doorway, peering at his bookshelves. “Yes?”

She bends over (he looks away, but not so quickly that he doesn’t see a flash of white cotton and the perfect curve of her backside underneath her skirt), plucking something from behind the bookshelf. For a few seconds, she scrutinizes whatever she’s retrieved, before turning to hold out her found prize. “Is this yours?”

His eyes widen, and he nearly leaps from his chair. As it is, his fingers are trembling when he retrieves the beads from her grasp.

His rosary.

Of course, a few of the old beads appear freshly chipped, but that hardly matters. He lets his fingers wander the worn links with a sigh of relief. To think that he’d given up on ever seeing it again! “Yes, Aranea. This is indeed mine.”

His use of her name makes her smile, and he has the decency to wait until she is down the hall and gone from sight before he collapses in his chair. “Give me strength,” he murmurs. “Lord God above. Give me the strength I need to save her.”

Already, he’s more sure than he was when she’d appeared in his office this morning, and he curls his fingers around the old rosary until he can feel the shape of the Virgin digging into his palm.

That night, he dreams (as he always does), and after a month of vivid snapshots in his mind, the clarity of this one is almost a relief — he wakes up wanting, as always, but for the first time since she’d first haunted his mind, he actually feels rested.

He touches the rosary where it hangs, on a nail beside his bed, and steels himself for the day.

Perhaps he can do this after all.


	3. Chapter 3

The first dinner he wears his rosary under his cloth, to keep it close to his heart, and he catches himself touching the hollow of his throat, and the shape of the beads through the fabric is a strange comfort in a time when he feels shaken and lost. 

Despite all intentions, the conversation keeps turning back to him. Where did he study, she wants to know. How were the teachers, did he take private lessons. The questions start off innocent enough, but as the evening grows long, her innocuous questions become more invasive, more probing. How long has he had his faith? Has it ever been shaken before? Is it true all priests have dark secrets? Does he?

The whole evening he’s mindful of the fact that her blouse hugs her chest a little _too_ well, and when she asks him (innocently, he’s sure) if he’d like to come back with her to her place to continue their discussions, he declines (a little hurriedly). She laughs — ‘right, right, improper, yeah!’ — and bids him a good evening.

His dreams that night leave him cold and lonely, and he lays in bed the following morning for a good three hours, working his fingers over his rosary and whispering Hail Marys to the blank ceiling.

* * *

On Sunday she’s waiting for him after Mass, hands clasped behind her back and a smile on her face, and she invites him to join her for coffee. It’s a warm day and he tries to say no, tries _desperately_ to deny her, but finds himself joining her at the cafe across the street all the same. They sit in front of the store, in clear view of the cathedral, and this time she asks him how he came to this church, where he grew up (the orphanage next door, of course, under the watchful eye of the Matriarch), if he was happy. 

There’s talk of scripture, but the more they discuss the Word, the more he suspects she’s only listening to him preach to indulge him. Somehow, this warms him instead of offends, and that night, his dreams involve murmuring scripture between her legs and her reciting rote back to him between breathy gasps.

* * *

It’s a full week before he sees her again, and while he only dreams twice in those seven days, those two dreams are so disjointed and shuddering (grey skin, and horns, and limbs, _too many limbs_ , and there’s again a hand lifting her skirt and another exposing her breast and yet another between his legs—) that when he greets her at Saturday Vigil and subsequently has a long, detailed dream of her riding him to her pleasure, it’s something of a relief. It’s easier, he discovers, if he’s seeing her regularly, so he begins scheduling weekly outings with her; and when a week is too long to go without seeing her it becomes twice a week, and then it’s every other day that he’s at her side, resisting the urge to rest his hand on her hip or pin her against the wall in one of the back alleys they meander past when strolling downtown. At first, he tells himself that he is strengthening his will against her, that the frequency with which he seeks her company is just him trying to strengthen his will.

She is a test of his resolve, and he is well aware that his resolve is weakening. No amount of justification can make it otherwise.

* * *

By the fourth month, she is no longer asking after his life and has instead turned her sharp wit to scripture, and he finds he enjoys debating with her the subtle nuances of the different passages in the book. Discussing the particularities of what Jesus may have meant by this turn of phrase or that choice of wording feels blasphemous, but she adores it, and he cannot deny her anything she wants.

She knows it, and it frightens him.


	4. Chapter 4

When his phone rings at three in the morning on a rainy Thursday, he doesn’t ask how she got his private number, because the words that come across the line are broken by soft, stuttered sobs. 

After five minutes of listening to her (and she sounds scared, _terrified_ ) he finally asks where she lives. The address she murmurs he jots down and punches into his GPS, and somehow, he’s not surprised at all to see she lives not twenty minutes away. _What are you afraid of,_ he asks.

 _Eternity,_ she replies.

It’s a twenty minute drive and he makes it in ten.

The girl that answers the door does so in a lace nightie that does nothing to hide her indecency and with mascara running down her cheeks. With a choked sob, she throws her arms around his neck. “I didn’t think you’d come,” she whispers, and he inhales the scent of her hair, painfully aware of the crush of her breasts against his chest and the rapid pulse pounding in his ears.

“How could I not?” He very carefully unwinds her arms from him, guiding her a few steps back. “Truly, I didn’t think this day would ever come.”

She wipes at her eyes with one hand, a soft, weak laugh escaping her. “You have that little faith, Father Vantas?”

He smiles, well aware that his expression is likely a little bitter. “None at all these days, I’m afraid.”

There’s another soft giggle, and she steps aside, to let him into the house. None of the lights are on, but there’s a handful of candles burning in the living room, in front of floor-to-ceiling windows that give a grand view of the storm as it rages on. “Are you sure you’re fit to pray with me, then?”

“I do not know that anyone else is available at this hour.” He tries the light switch on the wall halfheartedly. “Power’s out?”

Lightning flashes, illuminating half of her face as she nods. “About two hours now.” She sinks to her knees in the middle of the floor. She looks so achingly vulnerable that he has to resist the urge to gather her in his arms and find some way to soothe away her fears. As it is, he removes his shoes before crossing the threshold from wood-floored foyer into carpeted living room, and his socked feet carry him to her.

He looks down at her, kneeling with her hands clasped, and his hands curl briefly into fists at her side. He’s well aware of the indecency of it all; a young, unwed woman alone in a house with a man twice her age, on her knees. And him a priest.

Swallowing, he kneels before her, reaching to gather her hands between his own. “Do you know how this works?”

She nods, and there’s nervous fear behind her glasses. He almost believes it’s genuine. “You give me the words and I say them.”

He squeezes her hands. “You must _believe_ them, Aranea,” he says sharply, and she flinches, before nodding.

“I must believe them.” 

Her hands are so very small between his, and so very warm. He can feel his rosary hanging heavy around his neck. “You are going to acknowledge that Jesus Christ is God, that he came to earth to live the sinless life that you and I cannot, and that he died in our place, taking on the penalty of damnation so that we would not have to. You will acknowledge your sin, and admit that you are ready to trust in Jesus and the Lord.” He pauses. “Are you ready to do that?”

She’s trembling, he realizes, but she nods, all the same.

“Then close your eyes.”

She does, and he studies her for a moment — thunder crashes outside, and lightning reflects through the room, illuminating the pretty picture she makes with her head bowed, eyes closed. _Absolution,_ he says silently. _I pray for absolution._ “Repeat after me. ‘Father, I know I have broken your commandments—”

She begins to echo him, he _knows_ she does, because he can hear her voice, but he cannot make out the syllables, because the world around him has gone dark, and the girl before him has been replaced by a woman who is most decidedly _not_ on her knees.

There’s limbs, _too many limbs_ (eight, he realizes, and one of her blue eyes has multiple pupils — he’s willing to bet that she has a total of eight pupils in her pretty eyes), and when she smiles at him, she has sharp, pointy teeth. 

Dimly, he’s aware that the prayer is continuing, and though he does not feel himself speaking, he can hear his voice echoing through the darkness that surrounds them, and hers answering.

_My sins have separated me from you._

_My sins have separated me from you—_

She kneels, her horns gleaming with some unseen light, and when he tries to protest, she brings one finger to his lips. Eight limbs means eight hands, and she’s got two of them undoing the front of his shirt while she pulls her own over her head. Her nipples are pierced. He is not surprised.

_I want to turn away from my sins and turn towards you._

_I want to turn away from my sins and turn towards you—_

When his shirt is pulled away, she touches the scars that circle his wrists (a boyhood prank, from boys that were more cruel than funny, and the irons they’d clapped him in had _burned_ ) that he keeps so well-hidden most of the time, and it is almost enough to make him weep, but he cannot weep. He cannot move. He cannot even speak.

Odd, considering his words are still ringing in his ears, hollow and far away.

_Please forgive me, and help me from sinning again._

_Please forgive me, and help me from sinning again._

She’s caressing her breasts with one hand and lifting her skirt with another and there’s a third between her legs, delving past the fabric of her thin panties, and he can see _something_ squirming there, and whatever it is, the sight of it has him hard, aching. She knows it. She’s reaching for him.

_I believe your son Jesus Christ died for my sins and was resurrected on the third day._

_I believe your son Jesus Christ died for my sins and was resurrected on the third day._

He _cannot move._

Her hand is cold on his skin, like a soothing balm on his scars and across the muscles of his stomach. She is laughing at him, with her dark hair and her shiny horns and her sharp, pointy teeth; he’s sure she is, silent or not, and when she pries his pants open, he nearly chokes.

_I invite Jesus to enter my heart and become the Lord of my life._

_I invite Jesus to enter my heart and become the Lord of my life—_

It’s blasphemous and he wants _more,_ and he can hear her silently encouraging him as he rocks forward into the cool grasp of her long fingers, and he nearly sobs.

_Please send your Holy Spirit to help me do your will._

_Please send your Holy Spirit to help me do your will._

She’s pulling him closer, winding her long limbs around him, and the tongue that slips out of her mouth is as black as her lips, and he can taste the Sin on her, and all he wants is to _drown_ —

_In Jesus name I pray. Amen._

_In Jesus name I pray. Amen._

There’s a clap of thunder.

His eyes open to witness Aranea looking up at him with adoration and excitement, in the chilly night of her living room. Two hands. Two arms. No horns. “Did it work?” She asks breathlessly, and he drops her hands as though they’re on fire.

He has trouble finding his voice, and when he does, he’s unsurprised at the way it wavers. “Did _what_ work?”

“The prayer.” Her excitement hasn’t waned. Her eyes are bright with it. “Am I saved?”

His fingers rise to his throat, and he rubs at the beads of his rosary. “If you believed. Then yes.” _But you do not, and I am lost,_ he thinks, closing his eyes. Everything feels like a lie, and it tastes sour in his mouth. She’s close, closer than he wants her to be, and he sits back heavily. “You must confess your sins...”

“I can confess right here. Right _now._ ” 

God above, even her declarations of loyalty sound sinful. “No. At Mass.”

She’s nodding, he knows it. He can hear it in the way she speaks. “Yes, I can — this Sunday, if you’re hosting confessional—”

Enough is enough. “You would do well to confess to another Father.” He shuffles to his feet, refusing to look at her.

There’s pain in her voice. “Confess to another— but _why?_ ”

He turns away. His shoes are easy to slip on, and his feet are heavy as he moves towards the door. “Because this has gone on long enough.”

She says nothing else, and he leaves in silence. 

The next morning, he calls the Matriarch to explain that he is going to take that vacation she’s been after him about, and the last thing he does before he leaves his hang his rosary on the nail beside his bed. 

His faith is no longer his salvation, and he cannot keep pretending it is.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s been three weeks since he’s returned from his sabbatical, and in that time, he has not dreamed of Aranea once. 

She also hasn’t been at Mass, and he doesn’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse.

He’s been trying not to think about her. Returning to his duties has been more difficult than he expected it to be; it had taken a lot of confession and a lot of prayer before he felt confident enough to stand before the pulpit once more, and even longer than that before he was ready to host Confession. Still, after some time he settles back into an easy rhythm. When you spend your whole life dedicated to the Lord, resuming your duties in the church is like riding a bike.

* * *

The door to the confessional slides open, clicks shut, and he pushes up the wooden panel covering the screen.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen.”

“Amen,” she whispers, and he realizes with a jolt exactly who is sitting on the other side of the confessional. He can hear her breathing through the ornate divider between their booths, and he closes his eyes briefly and sends a prayer to heaven for strength.

“Father Vantas,” she begins. He notices again how husky her voice is when she speaks to him. “I've done many wrong things in my life, I must be honest. But I’m here today to rectify them— to confess to you, so you may absolve me of my sins, to carry my repentance to Heaven so I may be delivered.”

He folds his hands in his lap and concentrates on the peace of his Father. “My child, the Lord forgives all who repent. Speak freely; you will not be judged.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from the other side of the confessional, and he can imagine her eyes downcast, hands pressed demurely to her chest, one leg crossed over the other like it will preserve her modesty in a dress that short.

He knows her too well already.

“I am in love,” she begins, voice full of trepidation. “I am in love, Father, with a man I shouldn’t be, a man who could never hold any interest in someone like me. He is—Father, he is perfect, a true vision sent down from Heaven.” Her voice softens, becoming a quiet murmur, one he has to strain to hear. “He understands me so perfectly, he knows me so well, and I would give anything for him to see me, and he will save the entire world, I know it. I know it.”

He rubs a thumb absently over the worn metal of his cross, lips set in a thoughtful twist. This hardly sounds like a confession. “Love is not a sin, my child, so long as it is pure according to scripture.”

“No.” The response is immediate. “Father Vantas, he’s much older than I am—” her voice lowers once more, and for an instant he remembers his vision of her and immediately he is aching, his organ stirring in his pants and making it difficult to focus. “—and the things I want from him are far from pure.”

He doesn't say anything; her breath hitches audibly, and there's a soft rustling beneath it— one he can't place, but that's strangely familiar.

“I dream, Father,” she says after a moment. The words come haltingly. “I dream of— _sinful_ things, of doing things, of… He's so beautiful. I want to run my hands through his hair, reach under his clothes and touch his bare skin, feel his heat—”

He interrupts her. “I do not need to hear more.” 

“Oh, but you _do,_ ” she says earnestly. “Because I need you to know — how badly I want this, how much I need this—”

“ _Stop it_ , Aranea.” Already, he’s moving to rise. “I cannot hear any more of this.”

“You can,” she murmurs. “And you will.”

He rises to his feet, but the subtle sigh that wafts through the air gives him pause. From beyond the thin wood that separates their confessional booths comes a sound that is unmistakably wet, punctuated by short intakes of breath. When a soft moan escapes her, he knows beyond any shadow of a doubt that her fingers are between her legs, with her skirt hiked up around her hips.

“I need you, Father.” Her voice is soft, breathy; but the next phrase carries an unmistakable note of authority. “Stop fighting it and _come to me._ ”

His hand closes around the knob that opens the door on the backside of the confessional without him wanting it to, and he exits his half and enters hers not entirely of his own volition. Every step is a fight, and it is one he loses, until he is kneeling before her in the tiny booth, and her legs are spread before him, her fingers working diligently behind the white fabric of her panties. “I tried so hard to resist it, Father, to resist _you._ ” Her eyes are closed, and she sucks her lower lip between her teeth, stifling her vocalizations for a moment. “But I couldn’t. I couldn’t, not even when you left me behind.” 

There is no breaking the hold she has on him, he knows that now, and so he resigns himself to doing as she asks. Her hands are in his hair, but it's not her hands making him stay; it's his own body, traitorous and sinful, and when she removes her hand from within herself, she delicately pulls aside the cotton scrap of her panties and beckons him closer, his hands press willingly at the inside of her thighs. His heart is racing, and every breath feels like a struggle.

God help him, he has never wanted anything more than her.

“Father.” Her voice is trembling and soft, and it sounds like a prayer when she speaks. She had always sounded so desperate when she prayed. (He wonders if she was ever actually praying.) “I want you to worship me.”

His stomach clenches. “Heaven help me,” he whispers, bowing his head and pressing between her thighs, letting his tongue slip between the soft folds of her skin so he can taste her at her core. 

The reward he is graced with is nigh-instantaneous: her hips ride up against his mouth, her fingers tightening in his hair. She tastes the way he imagines ambrosia would, and he seeks out the little pearl at the top of her opening without really knowing why, suckling at it until she is trembling.

“Enough,” she finally gasps, and she wrenches his head from between her legs, panting. He knows without her saying that she wants to taste herself on his lips, and so he kisses her the way she wants, opening his mouth to hers.

“I tried,” she repeats, combing her fingers through his hair. “I tried so very hard.”

“Not hard enough,” he murmurs, and she silences him with a kiss so soft and chaste that it could very well be pure, and it is so unexpected that his heart stutters in his chest. “I never meant to tempt you, child.”

She’s pressing herself against him, and he could weep. This time, he nearly does. “I do not feel tempted, Father.”

“But you are,” he answers, and she kisses him again. “You are—I looked too long, spent too much time with you. I led you astray before you ever had a chance to be righteous.”

The kisses she’s peppering on his cheeks take her lower, and when she presses her lips to the underside of his jaw, it’s his breath that hitches. “I never wanted to be righteous, Father Vantas. I just wanted to be yours.”

She pulls away, puts space between their lips, and as he catches his breath, she traces the gap between her teeth he'd noticed so long ago.

“You know, Father Vantas, I haven't been entirely virtuous in our… associations.”

Somewhere, in the silent solitude of his own mind, he laughs silently; but the sound never makes it past his lips.

“I didn't find your rosary, that day I was in your office.” Her hand drifts from her mouth to the rosary beads resting against his chest, and he follows her pointed gaze to the single white bead she's fingering so intently. “I was returning it.”

The confusion twisting through him must be evident in his eyes, because she cups his cheek and presses a kiss to his forehead like a mother comforting a child. “You never lost it, Father. You weren't careless with the possessions the Lord chose to bless you with. I took it from you.”

His hands run up her thighs without his permission, and he tries not to think about the perfect shape of her buttocks under his palms, but when her hips shift and bring their bodies together for the first time, it's the smallest evil he can contemplate.

“I needed to, Father.” She sounds like she's pleading. “You wouldn't accept my gift otherwise. So I stole your rosary, and I added to it, and then when it was finished I returned it to you.” Her tongue shows through the gap in her teeth again, and something pitches in his stomach.

“I gave you a piece of me, Father, because I needed you to keep me with you for any of this to work. I had to be nearby… You had to know me to love me. You wouldn’t do it on your own.” She pauses. “You aren’t even doing it on your own now.”

The chip in the beads when he'd gotten them back, the strange smoothness— the way it felt stronger and lighter than the rest of the beads— it was her _tooth_ —

She reaches between his legs, hoisting up his robes. His stomach revolts without any permission from his mouth and he has to swallow or choke while hands other than his own close around his shaft for the first time in his life.

Her touch feels how he imagines Heavenly grace does, her delicate fingers sending tremors washing through him, erasing his thoughts from his core outward. He’s helpless under her attentions. No amount of struggle gives him control of his treacherous limbs, and it takes all his effort to even curl his hands into fists where they hang uselessly at his sides.

She knows what she’s doing, and he’s already close. _Damn her._ “You should give up fighting, Father.” Her hand continues as she speaks, pumping him in long, slow strokes. “I have you now.”

“Temptress,” he whispers. “Begone from me.”

She laughs, delighted. “You don’t _actually_ want that.” She leans forward, so that he can feel her breath hot against his ear. Her hand is still between his legs “Months of dreaming....so many hours, spent wishing you could have me...”

He may not have control over his body, but he can close his eyes. It does no good: she’s behind his lids, too, but the woman he sees when his eyes are closed is grey-skinned and many-limbed, and his eyes snap back open, gaze turning towards the slatted ceiling of the confessional booth. “I do not crave you.” The words are hollow, and he can hear them for the lie they are. It makes him wish he could be angry, and he aches for the fury he cannot summon. Empty anger would be better than the despairing resign. “I am a virtuous man, and you have a devil in you.”

“Then cast it out, Father Vantas.” She’s straddling him, grinding against him, and there’s a wet slickness against his shaft. “Give me your grace.” With her arms draped over his shoulders, she bows her head, dark locks brushing against his face. “Give me your pride, your virtue.” Her lips touch his ear as she lifts her hips, her hand working between them, wrapping around him and holding him in place. “Give in to me, and chase the devil away.”

Her voice is hypnotic, her words seductive, and the sound that rises from his throat when she guides him into her is more anguished than it is anything for she has stripped away the last of his defenses without giving him any chance to fight back. She is hot, wet, _suffocating_ , and she rocks against him, riding him with his robes bunched around his hips and his hands clenching at the wooden bench until there’s splinters riding up into his palms.

His rosary burns against his chest, and she tangles her fingers in the delicate chain. “It was always me, Father,” she whispers. There’s hunger in her voice. “Always me. I wanted you and I knew I could have you, if I could just show you the way, and now here you are. Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord—”

“Blasphemer,” he growls. The kiss that she answers with is enough incites the righteous fury he so desperately craves, and he returns the affection with an aggressive fervor, biting at her lips. His relenting is enough to let her grant him use of his arms, apparently, for suddenly they are under his control, and he drags his hands up her back. They move with sluggish slowness, but when his nails finally find purchase in her flesh, the gasp that escapes her may as well be a plea for more.

“Let those who fear the Lord say his love endures forever,” her breath is warm against his throat, and when she cants her head back, he buries his face against her chest, inhaling her scent.

“ _Blasphemer._ ”

“Open for me the— _haaa_ —gates of salvation,” she answers, moaning when he bites at one of her pierced nipples. “I will— _mmmn!_ —enter and give thanks to you— for you answered me — you have become my salvation —”

If she continues her blasphemy, he does not hear, because his pulse is roaring in his ears and she is near-screaming, her inner walls tightening around him as ecstasy finds him and carries him beyond the realm of what he knows and into Heaven.

When he regains consciousness, she is still there, and he is tucked against her. Her fingers are combing through his hair and she is humming tunelessly, a smile on her face. “You are my God, and I will praise you,” she murmurs. “You are my God, and I will exalt you.”

He closes his eyes and turns his face against her shoulder. He is damned, and there is no saving him.

**Author's Note:**

> This became a monster of a fic, because I was that in love with the prompt I was given.
> 
> I'm not even sorry.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it! I'm sorry if the hypnotism isn't as obvious as one might've hoped. Thanks for reading!


End file.
